


Eight Reasons

by htebazytook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boredom, Humor, M/M, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some boredom, some reasons, and, inevitably, smut.  Oh, and Sherlock's always right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Reasons

**Title:** Eight Reasons  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Disclaimer:** <—  
 **Pairing:** John/Sherlock  
 **Time Frame:** somewhere between A Study in Pink and The Blind Banker  
 **Summary:** Some boredom, some reasons, and, inevitably, smut. Oh, and Sherlock's always right.

 

 

Sherlock storms into the flat, yanks his scarf off with a vengeance and disappears to the kitchen where a series of clangs commences.

"Still no case, I take it," John calls above the din, and oh dear, that dramatic crash had been a plate, hadn’t it?

John is answered only by continual, increasingly violent clamor.

"You know we humans do manage to get by with reality programs and sports."

Sherlock’s head pops around the doorframe to say, "If I wanted to rot my brain, I would start inhaling household cleaning products recreationally and save us the money."

"How thoughtful." John flips through the brain-threatening channels.

Apparently satisfied with his raid of the kitchen, Sherlock stalks back into the living room and flops down on the couch like . . . well, the term ‘emo’ comes to mind. Also ‘PMS’.

"So tell me, John," Sherlock says dismally. "What other pastimes do you humans amuse yourselves with?"

"Well, now, let’s see . . . twenty questions . . . ?"

" _Only_ twenty?"

John ignores. " _YouTube_ , Facebook, Crazy Birds—"

"Angry," Sherlock corrects. "Beat it ages ago. Perhaps I should rephrase: limit the search to _interesting_ pastimes."

"I am not your _phone_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugs. "You are, a bit. Although not as efficient, obviously."

"Obviously. Yes. Right."

Sherlock sits up, steeples his hands and presses them to his mouth. "Something, _something_ . . ." Turns on him. "You're around, now. There should be something new that comes along with that."

"Moral compass?" John suggests. "Personal shopper?"

Sherlock bounces his knee. "Here," he says, businesslike. "Analyze me."

John's eyebrows climb. When Sherlock doesn’t elaborate, he says, "Sorry what?"

Sherlock's impatient. "Analyze me. Let's see how much you've learned."

"Was I meant to be taking notes? Thought I was just your sidekick."

"You are," Sherlock says dismissively. "This is just an exercise. If nothing else, it will—"

"Give you an ego boost? Not that you're in need of one, mind . . ."

"—prove _interesting_." Glares, challenging. "You're not an idiot," he adds.

"Well I—wait, _what_?"

"You're not as much as an idiot as some people," Sherlock amends.

John sighs. "It’s the little things, really . . ."

"Now go on, then—explain to me why I'm so awful or anti-social or whatever it is you think of me. I'm interested."

"Right. Okay, so. Let's see." John tries very hard not to squirm. "One analysis of Sherlock Holmes, then. _Ehem!_ Well, here, how about this? You feel it's your duty to point out why people are stupid or wrong because if you won't, then who will? Clearly no one has up until you came along or they'd be less annoying. They shouldn't take it personally— _you_ don't take anything personally. And really you aren't _completely_ rubbish at relationships, either. Obviously you _do_ have actual human feelings or else you'd be a megalomaniacal crime boss of epic, Blofeld proportions. Thankfully, you are merely a megalomaniacal good guy. Sort of. I mean, just because you don't run around holding doors open or saying thank you or counting people as friends does mean that they aren't. What else . . . well, here. Speaking of etiquette, you probably think all these rituals of society that are meant to define relationships are empty because they're, you know, rituals."

John doesn't think he's ever seen a bonafide blank stare on Sherlock. "Fascinating," he murmurs. "How _did_ you do that?"

"Ob . . . observation?" John tries, because that's something Sherlock would say, isn't it? Sherlock's gaze is, as always, penetrating. "Wild guesses? Wishful thinking? A bit of projection, most likely?"

Sherlock stares a moment longer before shifting suddenly, more upright. "This is actually very troubling."

John rolls his eyes. "I apologize. Deeply."

Sherlock shakes his head, sharp. "No no, don't be dense. I would much rather be troubled than bored. Do you really study me all that closely? Is that the real reason why you're so regrettably slow in other areas? Just think what you could accomplish if only you put your mind to it . . . So. In this amateurish psychoanalysis of yours you believe I'm afraid of relationships. Well done, John. Clearly you've learned all there is to know about my ways in a month."

"Not relationships, per se, just social mores. And I never said you were afraid. I know you're not afraid—you'd just rather not be bothered. Most people _do_ feel that way, you know. It's just that the rest of us carry on and navigate life through etiquette because it's what we're taught to do from birth, practically." He pauses. "What on _earth_ did your parents teach you and Mycroft, anyway? Machiavellian bedtime stories, was it? Is Sherlock even your real name? You have to admit it's a bit odd."

"Unique, really," Sherlock says, studying his nails. "And anyway I don't see what's so strange about actually thinking about behaviors before blindly adhering to them simply because it's the norm."

Sherlock is staring at him, and really his eyes are rather captivating—the shiny shifting hue you'd find on the underside of a shell. Never quite blue and never quite green but always gleaming in one way or another.

"You have an odd-looking face," John blurts.

"Yes," Sherlock says, unperturbed. "And you've an ordinary one. Forgettable. The people that society classifies as beautiful or attractive really just have an abundance of commonplace features, and because we're so used to seeing a certain nose or a certain chin, when we look at the people who are in fact the _most_ ordinary looking, we instead classify them as beautiful simply by virtue of familiarity."

John nods during the pause that follows. "And is this how you normally take compliments?"

"I hadn't realized that being called odd-looking was a complement, but then again I have never claimed to understand flirtatious conduct."

"I'm not flirt—" John gives up. "Just tell me this: is there a _reason_ why people always . . . _assume_ things about you and I? Have I some kind of Vibe that's been dormant until recently? Or—"

"Oh, at least _try_ to reason it out before getting all _emotional_ ," Sherlock says disdainfully, then continues in a rapid fire: "People find me strange, and I'm nearly always alone, and although I have shown no particular interest in men, women often present themselves in a more obnoxious fashion, or perhaps they're inherently more annoyed with my pointing out their stupidity than men are . . . anyway, if the casual observer were to take into account the way that women, especially, repulse me, my aloofness, and of course my 'eccentricities', then logically they would suspect I was gay and nd of course now that you're tagging along all over town, their suspicions would seem to be confirmed."

"Mm. So is it circular breathing or what? It's brilliant."

"You asked," Sherlock says, edgy.

"If only you could conquer this addiction to hearing yourself talk," John muses. "You'd get to the point much more efficiently. Nobody actually enjoys being forced to follow your reasoning, you know."

Sherlock smiles. "Yes, I know. Anyway, my turn, You're—"

"Oh come on—you _always_ do me."

A pause. "You do realize it's statements like those that lead people to believe we are indeed a couple." Sherlock's gone back to staring at him. After a long, blue moment, he leaves as abruptly as he'd come.

*

Sherlock sits down on the sofa diagonal from him again the next morning and picks up the staring right where he'd left off.

To be fair, this happens on a regular basis, and for the most part John has learned to ignore it. Usually, it just means Sherlock's zoned out and John just happened to land in his line of sight while information overtook him, and Sherlock won't say a word to him for hours.

It's just that he's doing it so _intently_ , at the moment.

John tries to ignore it as always, straightens out his newspaper and hunkers down into his chair as slyly as possible, but it's no use—he can still feel the weight of Sherlock's gaze on him through the business section.

John clears his throat, lowers his paper and shoots Sherlock a look that's meant to be expectant. Sherlock doesn't seem to grasp this, however, because the staring is not deterred in the least.

John sighs, angles his chair away from him with relative difficulty—nearly knocking a lamp over and stubbing his toe on the chair leg. He tries to relax his shoulders, glares at the newspaper but can't quite comprehend the words because Sherlock hasn't, of course, let up.

"John."

"Mm."

"We should have sex."

"Should we?" And what does it say about their relationship that John isn't utterly taken aback?

"I believe I just said that."

"What, right now?"

"Why not?"

John laughs. " _Well_ . . . "

"Never mind. Don't care. And anyway all your reasons are flawed." Sherlock stands, shrugs out of his robe and lays it on the chair and Jesus, is he about to start stripping in the middle of the living room with the bloody door open?

"Right. Would you mind telling me _your_ reasons, then?"

"There are six that spring to mind immediately," Sherlock says. He's doing a suave pacing thing that also happens to take him gradually closer to John. "You're convenient. You're obviously willing . . . "

"Now, hang on—"

"You've stuck around and show no signs of clearing off anytime soon. You haven't had a _serious_ relationship in, hm, ten months at least—more likely fourteen. You've come on to me before."

John doesn't have the energy to deny it. He sighs. "And?"

"Hm?"

"You said six," John says. "What's the sixth reason?"

"Well, I want to, of course. But that's much too biased and subjective to count as a valid reason for the purposes of arguing my case."

"I'm . . . " John blinks. " _Why_ have you not told me this?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Only just decided to contemplate it." He studies John. "Seven," he says.

"Sorry?"

"I also rather like your mouth, apparently."

What is John supposed to _say_ to that? "And what exactly makes you think I'm 'obviously willing'?"

Sherlock laughs. "Please."

Well, all right, I mean, of course John _wants_ Sherlock—he's attractive in every possible way, even in the bad ways, even in the ways that irritated you. It could be mean, the way Sherlock would explain to you why you were stupid or wrong, but it wasn't _intentionally_ mean. It was reliably logical and emotionally detached and _always_ correct.

Yes, John was probably rationalizing, but even if he was, wasn't _that_ a pretty good indicator, healthy or not, that he was more interested in Sherlock than usual?

Sherlock sits on the sofa again. "Come here," he says, quietly, like an afterthought, but it sends a shiver up John's spine and John scurries right on over to sit next to him. He's long since given up arguing with Sherlock for very long—Sherlock's always right, in the end.

Sherlock moves closer and John mirrors it, fragile uncertain magnetism, but then Sherlock tilts his head, glances at John’s mouth and John leans in on the same simultaneous impulse and they kiss. It’s slow and hesitant and dry but the very idea of this sends shivers racing over John's skin.

The pace doesn’t so much quicken as they become more confident, firmer press of lips and less miniscule movements. John starts to want more, puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for support and tries to coax his mouth open with his tongue.

Sherlock pulls away, turns away and stares at the floor with parted lips and wide eyes, utterly still from head to toe except for one constricted exhale.

John watches, fascinated, but soon gets over the novelty of a speechless Sherlock. He turns Sherlock’s face back to him and lets his hand wind through Sherlock’s hair during the next, gloriously uncontrolled kiss. Sherlock makes a soft, needy sound into John’s mouth and grips his sleeve and kisses back like he’s drowning and this is the only way to breathe. John feels quite the same, pulse throbbing behind his eyes, scattering his thoughts, sending blood to sadly disused parts of him that seem very pleased to have woken up. Sherlock’s tongue dancing demandingly with his now . . .

Sherlock shoves him back, hard.

"What . . . ?"

"Stairs."

"Hello-oo, are you boys decent?"

John sighs. "Oh _ruddy_ —" Slaps on a smile when Mrs Hudson appears in the constantly, inexplicably open door. "Hullo!"

Mrs Hudson smiles back. "Good morning, you two! Now, I was about to pop off and do the shopping, and I thought to myself, I'd better make a run upstairs and see if you needed anything picked up, while I'm out?"

"Oh, well, actually some ja—"

"Out," Sherlock says.

They both look at him. Mrs Hudson frowns, says, "Sherlock?"

"Yes, didn't you _hear_ me? _Out_."

"But I—"

"John will see to it. You are hardly needed. "

John laughs. "Will I indeed?"

"Statistically probable based on your past shopping habits, yes, now do stop your utterly useless dawdling and _leave_ , Mrs Hudson."

Mrs Hudson scoffs in a 'Well I never!' fashion, stops her useless dawdling and leaves.

John turns to him. "Tell me, do you ever even consider _attempting_ to be nice, for a change?" But instead of waiting for an answer John finds himself mesmerized by the faint flush across Sherlock's cheeks and the sheen of his lips, and then he's sort of lunging and then they’re sort of kissing again . . .

Some time later Sherlock is blinking up at him, which is John's first clue to the fact that he is currently straddling him on the couch like a madman.

Quietly, staringly, Sherlock says, "So you do like men, then."

"Are you . . . stating a fact or guessing, here?"

"I never guess."

"Well, you make _educated_ guesses, then . . . "

"I form hypotheses based on all the facts that are available."

" . . . So an _educated_ guess, then."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, leans into another kiss.

John can't tell how much of this has to do with just plain, generalized sexual frustration and how much of it really is a Sherlock-specific impulse. He's sure Sherlock would have an answer, but John would rather continue doing this _without_ ceaseless thinking and analyzing, thanks . . .

John is so caught up in the red-feeling press of lust, unexpected and good and painfully strong. Feels unbalanced, all instincts advising him to cling to the nearest available person until the world decides to stop spinning like that. Luckily Sherlock is nearby and equally clingy, but eventually he seems to tire of hesitant teenage groping, shoves John off of him and then follows to steady his stumbling feet, backs him right on into a handy doorjamb and kisses him so mercilessly that John can't for the life of him remember why they haven't done this before. There _had_ been reasons, hadn't there?

Molding digging into John's back, cool of the wall and heat of Sherlock's hands, and then this vibrant moment where they keep missing each other's mouths, brush of lips and soft questioning nudges that lead into a deeper kiss than before, Sherlock's whole body so tense up against John's and the joining of mouths so hard and significant and real.

John is truly mystified by the severity of stubble burn on his chin this quickly. Apparently closely shaven faces yielded a delightful, sandpaper-like texture to be enjoyed when engaging in a good snog. None of this was logical. None of it . . .

Sherlock may have looked scrawny, but looks were deceiving, no matter what Sherlock said. He's dragging John through the flat quite easily, anyway, and the detours against various surfaces and items intended as furniture are fraught with even more kissing.

"Where are we going?" John manages after Sherlock's extracted his tongue from his throat.

Sherlock sighs long-sufferingly, drags him up the stairs. "The bedroom, John, where do you think? I do have a sense of propriety."

"No you haven't."

"Fine. But a mattress is infinitely more conducive to sex than a living room that attracts uninvited, consistently coddling landladies."

"You do have a—" John stumbles over a mechanical metronome on the floor of Sherlock's room. "— _point_ , there. _Ow_."

Sherlock sighs. "You're much too easily distracted."

" _I'm_ —!"

It occurs to John that he doesn’t normally find himself in the position of backing trippingly onto bed while being kissed senseless. Not that he’s complaining. Sherlock is so demanding in this, as he is in everything, really—and impatient and 1,000 steps ahead and currently pinning John with disconcerting efficiency. Where had learned this, anyway? And with whom?

John reaches to pull Sherlock closer but Sherlock instead captures his wrists to press into the mattress above his head, gives a distinctly lust-colored glare ('Neon turquoise,' John thinks) before bending to kiss him again, wet caress of mouths that’s more mutual breathing than a viable kiss. John tries to free his hands but Sherlock only grips tighter, kisses more and grinds his hips slowly against John’s, now, and John’s state of mind goes from excitement to shock to desperate, new-awakened want, potent in its unexpectedness and completely addictive. Want Sherlock? Lunatic. But then once you actually had his tongue in your mouth and his erection heavy and insistent against yours . . .

"So why am I the one being held down, exactly? You may be a sneaky bugger, but I _am_ stronger than you."

"I had thought that should be obvious. I'm taller than you, sound rather manlier, and if you had to decide between us, you're more 'the pretty one'." Studies him. "Scratch that: 'the cute one'."

"What, 'cute'? _Kittens_ are cute. And I am not 'the cute one.' In what world am I 'the cute one'? If anything you're . . . well . . . as we'd previously established, you're really rather odd-looking."

Sherlock seems not to have heard, has that shifty look in his eyes that means he’s searching for something to do. He settles for unbuttoning buttons and mouthing at his chest through his undershirt in the most entrancing manner, conscientious and in slow motion. He yanks John’s cardigan off with quite a bit of jostling around, doesn’t seem to care that he’s twisting John’s arms or that they’ve bumped foreheads bruisingly in the process.

John doesn’t have time to dwell on his blooming headache, though, because now Sherlock’s pushing John’s remaining shirt up to trial kisses from navel to throat and back down to lick at John’s nipple, which is apparently wired directly to his cock, and why hadn't he known that before, exactly?

Sherlock grazes his teeth over the nub and John has to gasp at the sparks of sensation, has to moan and holds Sherlock there by the hair when he lets up to lick delicately, then sucks hard at John’s urging—John pants his name—eventually moves on to the other nipple and rolls the abandoned one between thumb and forefinger.

John can’t survive this—drags Sherlock into another kiss, slide of mouths to echo their writhing bodies. Sherlock seems to know exactly how much to touch him and where, and John supposes he shouldn't be surprised. A hand trailing up his side, a fierce fist in his hair, scrabbling because of how short it is, a sucking kiss on some previously unknown pressure point on his neck.

They accidentally get caught staring at one another, sudden awareness, and John thinks to himself:

'What the hell? I don't want this . . . why in God's name would I want _this_? Here is an arrogant, odd-looking _man_. No breasts or delightfully curvy bits in sight! I am not _this_ attracted to his wit and cleverness—that is not a sufficient basis for sexual attraction. I am not interested in his odd-looking mouth or the look in his odd-looking eyes right now, all piercing and pretty and such. _Not_.'

But this passes quickly when Sherlock grinds his hips into John's again, bites at his neck when John's head falls back on a helpless groan.

Sherlock’s hips move against John’s minutely, unhurriedly, so John has to arc up to get more friction. This seems to snap Sherlock out of his trance, because then he’s thrusting back more and _better_ , lets out shaky breaths and kisses at John’s neck while John just closes his eyes and wallows in the surges of pleasure that have overruled any and all sanity, winds one leg up around Sherlock’s to pull them more tightly close, to which Sherlock moans, sucks harder at John’s neck and roll his hips harder, too, delicious constraint of clothing, moving more erratically in the most thrill—

Sherlock stops, pulls back, sits up on the bed. He stares down at John lying there in a swoon for a nicely awkward interval before saying, "This is tedious." Tugs at John’s trouser leg. "Take these off."

John complies, sitting up in a rush and fumbling pathetically with shoes versus trousers. By the time he’s shed the rest of his clothes Sherlock has done the same in the blink of an eye, apparently, and has also procured a small container of lube and a condom from midair.

"How . . . ? No, _where_ . . . ?"

"Please stop, you’re embarrassing yourself. And stop squirming. John, _stop_ —" Sherlock pulls a truly unfair sleight-of-hand that involves knocking John horizontal, grasping his cock and kissing him silent while his other hand slips lower, eases inside him stealthily.

John sighs into the kiss, exasperation fading in light of elusive little hints of pleasure as Sherlock’s finger grazes over his prostate with surprising accuracy. John makes an involuntary sound and Sherlock bites at his bottom lip as if to chide him, then works another long finger inside and isn’t this supposed to be a gradual affair? It’s odd and intrusive and peppered with moments of pain as much as pleasure and . . . Well, anyway, Sherlock’s doing really lovely things to John’s cock at the moment, so that’s all right, then . . .

Some floaty eternity later Sherlock’s graduated to three very much _there_ fingers that keep brushing against _good_ but never linger at all. John isn’t so much accepting of this weird, stretched feeling as he’s becoming used to it, and I mean, Sherlock generally knows what he’s doing when it comes to . . . everything.

John’s closed his eyes to concentrate on the way Sherlock twists his wrist as he jerks John’s cock when he finds himself abruptly unbalanced, flipped over neatly with his face smashed into sheets, and when he turns his head to breathe or berate Sherlock just swoops in to recapture his mouth. John kisses back, hears Sherlock unwrapping the condom in the background and feels his cock pushing inside him almost as an afterthought.

And it’s so odd, so intriguingly odd, so— "OhmydearGod _there_."

Sherlock laughs, then fucks him more steadily, holding John’s hands to press into the mattress again and nuzzling at the back of John’s neck for bonus points of pleasure that vie with the wild, brilliant bursts whenever Sherlock angles into him just right. John can’t hold back his groans, his stupid half-formed thoughts, feels compelled to point out: "You . . . are . . . worryingly quiet."

Sherlock somehow incorporates a shrug into a thrust. "I'm concentrating. In any case I hadn't known it was customary to make small talk under these circumstances."

"Oh whatever, whatever—just keep— _ah_ . . ."

"That?"

" _Nnn_ . . . "

"This?"

"Look, forget I said anything about talking, would you?"

Dinka- _ding_!

Sherlock rummages around on the floor for his phone pretty much immediately.

"Oh really— _are_ you serious?"

"Only take a minute." Sherlock texts back, puts the phone on the bedside table, turns on John with what is quite possibly his full focus. "Now. Where were we?"

They find a truly delicious, somewhat breakneck rhythm that leaves John breathless. He can't quite believe how close he is just from the pound of Sherlock's cock _right there_ , God . . .

Dinka- _ding_!

Sherlock reaches over to the bedside table.

John groans, less orgasmically. "Oh, to be a normal person. Normal people don’t have to deal with this sort of nonse— _ah_!"

"See?" Sherlock says, tapping out a text somewhere by John’s ear, and loudly, but still somehow managing to hit the perfect spot with his cock. "Perfectly capable of multitasking. You really ought to know that by now."

"You . . . _fucking_ . . . " John's ire fades in the flashbulbs of pleasure sparking through him. "Fucking _accurate_ . . ."

Sherlock locks his phone—c- _lack_ —and stows it on the table, then holds John's arms down, bites and sucks at his neck and shoulders while he fucks him.

"Forty-two," Sherlock confides to John's ear.

"Huh?"

"The number of seconds until I make you come."

John shudders. " _Jesus_ . . ."

And Sherlock, as always, is right.

*

"You're unfairly good at that, you know," John says. He can't remember about words. Just sighs, "Sublime . . ."

Sherlock snickers. "How long?"

"Ehwha'?"

"'Til you've run out of adjectives."

"Ah. Hm. Not sure, but I'm not exactly opposed to finding out."

Sherlock's already checked out, slow-blinking eyes and noticeably relaxed demeanor. John's always fascinated by sleepy Sherlock.

"So who was it?" John asks.

"Who was what?"

John sighs. "Who was it texted you? Seemed terribly important . . ."

"Oh. No, it was just boring. I'd already forgotten all about it, to be honest. You haven’t had it off in ages, have you?"

John blinks at the subject change. "Hang on, don’t tell me—was it the massively long showers that gave me away?"

Sherlock shrugs, scrunching his already tousled hair into the pillows. "A gue—an _educated_ guess."

John starts to smirk. "Thought you never guessed."

"Gambled, then." Tries to stare John down but his eyelids keep drooping. "It did pay off."

John laughs. Then, "Eight."

Softly, "Hm?"

"Eight reasons why we should have sex."

"Oh?" Sherlock yawns, blinks at him.

"You're bloody adorable, after."

*


End file.
